


Hope for a Drowning Man

by Kelly_Grosskreutz



Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e01 The Switchman, Extended Scene, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 16:44:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18077165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kelly_Grosskreutz/pseuds/Kelly_Grosskreutz
Summary: When Jim’s senses begin to go haywire, he desperately searches for the one person who can help him, fearing all the while that he is going insane. He finally finds hope in the most unlikely of places, but will he be able to realize it and accept it before he pushes it away forever? Set during the events of “The Switchman.”





	Hope for a Drowning Man

Detective Jim Ellison sat in the waiting room of the hospital, a cold knot of fear where his stomach used to be. He wanted to be anywhere but there. He wanted to run out of the room, out of the hospital, and keep running until his legs would carry him no farther. But instead, he remained seated and continued to wait.

Jim hated doctors. He hated examinations. He hated having to strip out of his clothes, wear that gown that didn’t really cover anything, and offer himself up to be poked and prodded like he was just a hunk of meat in a butcher’s shop or a specimen in a zoo.

He was willing to go through with it, though, as long as he could finally figure out what was wrong with him. What was wrong with him, and what could be done to make it better. To give him control over his senses again, and therefore over his life.

He found it bizarre that for the first time in his life, he wanted the doctor to find something physically wrong with him. _Better that than the alternative._ Clenching his jaw, he pushed that thought away. He’d been getting pretty good at pushing thoughts like that away. He’d been doing it for the past couple of days, after all.

It was harder to push away the fear, though. That had been a constant companion ever since he’d fallen off the back of the motorbike and found himself sprawled on the ground, the bombing suspect riding away to freedom. Ever since he’d looked into the faceplate of the suspect’s helmet and that _thing_ had happened with his vision. That _thing_ that had shot right through his eyes and into his brain. He’d only been distracted for a second, but that was just long enough for the bomber to get away.

That wasn’t the first time his senses hadn’t acted like they were supposed to, but as he lay on the ground, watching the bomber flee the scene, it was the moment in which he realized that if he didn’t figure out what was going on with his senses fast, he was no longer going to be able to do his job. He’d be a liability to himself and to anyone else in the vicinity if his senses acted up in a critical moment. He might have been willing to risk it anyway if it were just himself, but the thought of losing control when someone else’s life was at stake was almost enough to make him break out in a cold sweat.

Worse, on his way back to the precinct after the failed stakeout, he’d realized that this lack of control might be worse than he thought. He’d remembered something that had happened earlier that morning. He’d been keeping an eye on the old mill, waiting for the suspect, and cooking some food over an open fire. He’d noticed his water was boiling, but before he could even think about taking the pan away from the fire, he found himself entranced by the sound of the boiling water. It was like he’d never heard water boil before. Nothing had existed for him but that sound. If his radio hadn’t gone off, he wondered how long he would’ve sat there, unaware of anything but that sound.

Forget not being able to do his job, if he’d spaced out like that at home, he might’ve burned the whole building down. He shuddered at the thought.

That led him right back to the reason he was sitting in an uncomfortable chair in a hospital waiting room. There was something seriously wrong with him, and he was afraid that if it were allowed to continue, he’d end up in a rubber room somewhere.

With that thought, the fear he’d been trying to pretend wasn’t there escalated, threatening to overwhelm him altogether. Images flooded his mind, of him sitting on the padded floor of a rubber room, straightjacket confining him, screaming because the lights were too bright, or the straightjacket felt like sandpaper on his skin, or for no obvious reason but that his senses were completely out of control, and he was helpless to do anything about it. Of wanting to claw his eyes out, rip his ears off, plug up his nose, and tear off his skin, anything to stop the maddening input.

_Get hold of yourself!_ He fought to stem the tide of panic. _You might not be able to control your senses, but you will damn well control yourself!_

With an extreme effort of will, Jim finally managed to push the images away and the fear back down into the small, cold knot in his stomach, but he had to admit that he’d never been this scared before in his life, not even when the helicopter crashed in Peru and he found himself the sole survivor.

_It’s going to be okay_ , he tried to tell himself. _They’re going to call my name, I’m going to go into a room, answer a bunch of questions, go through a bunch of tests, and then some wise old doctor with a ton of experience will come in the room, tell me what’s wrong, and talk about what we can do. Everything will be just fine._

On cue, a nurse entered the room and called, “Detective Ellison?”

Jim got up and followed her out of the waiting room, bracing himself for what was to come.

* * *

The next few hours went by in a blur. Trying to explain all his sensory issues in a clear, concise manner to a young woman who looked barely old enough to be out of high school. Blood pressure cuff squeezing his arm agonizingly tight. Reflex hammer about sending him through the roof. Light shining in his eyes, blinding him. Probes stuck in his ears. The prick of the needle that felt more like a dagger being jabbed into his arm. The rough feel and disgusting taste of the tongue depressor as the nurse checked out his throat, even though he’d told her there was nothing wrong with his throat. “How does this feel?” “How does that feel?” “Has this been bothering you, Detective Ellison?” “Have you had a cold recently?” “Do you feel safe in the home?” He couldn’t believe how stupid some of the questions were. Jim chalked it up to teenagers being allowed to play doctor. At least he’d been allowed to keep his pants on, even though he still had to wear the stupid gown.

When she was done torturing him, she told him to wait there, and someone else would be in shortly to take him down the hall for some tests. About ten minutes later, a young man entered the room. Jim inwardly groaned upon seeing him. He didn’t look much older than the girl that had just finished examining him. His face looked so smooth and young that Jim wondered how often this kid had to shave.

The doctor ( _is he really a doctor_ , Jim wondered, _or is he an intern?_ ) may have looked young, but he explained the upcoming tests competently enough. Once he was sure Jim understood what was going to happen during them, the doctor/intern led him into the first of a series of rooms to begin the tests.

It seemed like every test had to be performed by a different doctor. He lost track of their names and what they were testing him for after a time. He didn’t think he’d ever been poked and prodded so much in his life, not even when he’d gone through his first physical before joining the Army.

The final test was an MRI. Jim laid on the table when prompted, then spent the next bit of time trying to remain absolutely still and quiet while the sound of the machinery doing its job sounded like it was trying to bore its way into the center of his brain.

After what seemed an eternity, the MRI was over, and a voice came on over the intercom, telling him to wait for a few minutes while she consulted with the doctor to see if more tests were needed. Jim took the opportunity to try to get hold of himself. He pressed his hands in against his head, trying to soothe both his ears and the headache that was rapidly growing.

As the minutes ticked by, Jim found himself both glad and trepidatious that the doctor was taking forever, glad because it gave him that much more time to try to get his agitated senses back under some semblance of control, and trepidatious because it gave his fear that much more time to try to take over. He just wanted this day to be over!

The woman’s voice came over the intercom again, telling him it was okay for him to get dressed. _Finally!_ he thought as he began to pull the gown off and put his shirt back on. _Now maybe the doctor overseeing my case will come in._

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than the door opened and a man entered. Jim regarded the newcomer with dismay. _This can’t be the doctor that’s overseeing my case!_

The man was the antithesis of what Jim had pictured when he’d thought about going to the doctor. The man was not only quite young, appearing to be only in his mid-20s, but he had long, curly brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, blue jeans, and a pair of tennis shoes that had seen better days.

But the man _was_ wearing a doctor’s coat, with a nametag proclaiming him to be Dr. J. McCoy. He had a stethoscope draped around his neck and a clipboard in his hands. The glasses perched on his nose lent the man an educated air, but overall, Jim was not impressed. _Hopefully, in this case, appearances are deceiving._

The doctor wasted no time with small talk. That was one point in his favor. He immediately greeted Jim, extended his hand to be shook, and introduced himself. However, the name he used did not match the one on his nametag. “I’m Dr. McKay.”

“Your nametag says McCoy,” Jim pointed out.

The man glanced briefly at his nametag, seemingly thrown for a moment. “Um…yeah.” Then, sounding like he was making it up as he was going along, he continued smoothly, “But the correct Gaelic pronunciation of my family name is McKay.”

Jim wondered why McCoy was acting so weird about his own last name, but he really didn’t care one way or the other. The clown could be Dr. Ronald McDonald as long as he could help Jim. He decided to get right down to business. “You have the results?”

McCoy looked puzzled. “Of?”

_Of what do you think?_ “The tests?” Jim prompted, starting to get annoyed. Was this guy _really_ the doctor assigned to his case?

At that, McCoy’s face lost its confused look and became animated. He practically gushed out, “Forget the tests. You don’t need medicine. You need information.”

_What the…? Just who_ was _this guy? He sure can’t be the doctor!_ “What are you, an intern? Go get the doctor for me, will you, please?”

Instead of doing as asked, McCoy continued on, his speech accelerated, his entire manner desperate. “Now just wait a second. Hear me out here.” McCoy then proceeded to spout off all the symptoms Jim had told the nurse earlier: the issues with his sight, hearing, smell, and taste.

The detective’s patience was almost at an end, but he tried to keep it together on the off chance that this man knew something after all. He pointed out to McCoy that everything he’d just told him was already in his chart, hinting he wanted to hear something new.

McCoy obliged. “I bet I can add one more thing,” he said. “A hyperactive tactile response.”

Jim wasn’t sure if he’d understood him correctly. He thought he had an idea what the words meant, but he wanted to make sure. Because if what McCoy said meant what he thought it did, then maybe they were on to something here. Because if the words meant what he thought they did, they described something he had experienced but had told no one about.

When asked to clarify, McCoy said, “Extra-sensitive touchy-feely.”

With those words, Jim forgot everything he’d just been thinking about how maybe McCoy might have a clue. Instead, for a brief moment, the kiss he’d shared with Carolyn the previous evening flashed through his mind, to be quickly replaced by anger. _How dare that young punk bring up my sex life? How_ dare _he?_ “That’s none of your business,” Jim growled. “And who the hell are you, anyway?”

Undeterred by Jim’s increasingly bad mood, McCoy answered. “Me, I’m no one. But this man, he is.” McCoy pulled out a business card. Jim took it. “He’s the only one who can truly help you,” McCoy continued earnestly. “You’re too far ahead of the curve for any of this techno-trash.” Turning to leave, McCoy threw out one last salvo. “You’re a cop. See the man.”

Jim glanced down at the business card he’d been given, but only had time to make out a name (Blair Sandburg) before his attention was drawn to the door. McCoy might be leaving the room, but another man was trying to enter at the same time. Jim noted that McCoy was wasting no time on getting out of there, not even glancing at the newcomer, who watched after McCoy for a moment with a confused look on his face.

Jim took one look at the newcomer and started to feel a little bit better about his situation. Now THIS was what he’d had in mind when he thought about having a doctor look him over. The man standing before him, far from being an intern, appeared to be approaching retirement age. _This man will know what to do for me._

Like McCoy before him, the man jumped right into it. “Good afternoon, Detective. I have to tell you I’ve scheduled some additional tests. But based on the results we have so far, there doesn’t seem to be any medical foundation for your complaints.”

Jim felt like someone had just punched him in the gut. The doctor’s words echoed in his mind. _No medical foundation for your complaints._ How could there be no medical foundation for his complaints? He’d been struggling with his senses all day! And how dare he call what’d been going on with Jim “complaints.” _As if I came in here complaining about a hangnail and a stubbed toe._ All he could think to say, though, was a non sequitur. “You lost your nametag.”

The doctor seemed a little surprised as he glanced down at his coat. “Oh, so I did. I’m Dr. McCoy.”

For a moment, all Jim could do was stare. He’s _Dr. McCoy? But if he’s Dr. McCoy, then who the hell was that other guy?_ Then it dawned on him that it didn’t matter as the doctor’s diagnosis jumped back into his mind. “Are you sure?” he finally managed to ask.

McCoy ( _the real McCoy_ , Jim couldn’t help thinking) looked at him with some sympathy as he responded. “Yes, Detective, I am quite sure. At least, as sure as I can be, based on our preliminary findings. Your blood work turned up normal, and the MRI of your brain showed no pathology. Nurse Jensen noted increased sensitivity to her basic physiological tests, which would track with what you’ve related your symptoms to be, but aside from that, I cannot find a physical cause to explain your complaints.”

Jim continued to stare at the man, in shock, each word McCoy saying feeling like another nail being pounded into the coffin containing his life.

McCoy began to go on some more about the tests he had in mind, but Jim didn’t want to hear anymore. McCoy could run all the tests he wanted, but Jim feared he already knew what they would find. Nothing. Nothing because there was nothing to find. “Thank you for your time, Doctor,” he mumbled, throwing on his coat and heading for the door. “I’ll get back to you.” 

With that, Detective Jim Ellison fled the hospital.

Okay, so it didn’t _look_ like he was fleeing. To the unknowing observer, he would’ve looked like he was walking calmly and stoically out of the hospital. But he knew it for what it was. He was fleeing, running away. Whatever you wanted to call it, he was doing it.

Jim made it back to his jeep not a moment too soon. As his fingers fought to drag his keys out of his pocket, reaction began to set in. He was able to unlock the door with only a slight shaking of his hand, but he found himself almost collapsing onto the seat. His legs had all of a sudden turned to water.

In the safe, familiar confines of his vehicle, all the thoughts and feelings he’d been trying to push away came surging in. No longer able to deny them, he was forced to face the stark truth. His worst fears were coming true. He was losing control of his senses, and it didn’t look like there was a damn thing anybody could do to help him.

And, if things continued to deteriorate at the rate they had been, he wasn’t going to just lose control of his senses. He was going to eventually lose his mind.

_There’s gotta be something I can do_ , Jim thought desperately. _Some place I can go, some person that will understand what’s going on with me and be able to help me!_

_Sure, there’s a place you can go where there are people who’ll know what to do with you_ , the more cynical side of him thought bitterly. _You can drive over there right now, check yourself in, and get yourself a brand new coat with funky sleeves, good drugs, and doctors who will enjoy studying their latest acquisition._

_No!_ yelled the part of him that hadn’t given up yet. _I will not be Dr. McCoy’s lab rat, and I_ sure _as hell won’t be analyzed and studied by a bunch of head doctors._

_But you might not have any choice in the matter_ , countered the more pessimistic side of himself. _Once you lose complete control of your senses, you won’t care anymore about where you are or who’s doing what to you._

_Why keep putting off the inevitable?_ whispered that same negative side of himself. _You were thinking about trading off the jeep anyway. Instead of getting that F-150 you’ve had your eye on, you could just sell the jeep, put the loft up for sale, and check yourself in to what will most likely become your new permanent home anyway. With the money from both those sales, you’ll never have to worry about them kicking you out because you’re broke._

His logical, practical side took over. _Knock it off! You’re still a long way off from being committed. If there_ is _something wrong with your mind, just go see a shrink and go from there!_

It was a logical suggestion, but Jim shied away from that thought. The _last_ thing he wanted to do was go and talk about his feelings with some stranger. Then again, when did he ever want to talk about his feelings with anyone?

If it came down to either going to a shrink or going back to Dr. McCoy, he’d take the battery of tests any time.

Jim sighed. He was sick of thinking about this, but he also knew he needed to do _something_. He just didn’t know what. He was between a rock and a hard place, and he felt like he was about to get crushed by the rock smashing him down into the hard place.

Coming to the conclusion that, whatever he did next, it wasn’t going to be done sitting in the hospital’s parking lot, he reached up to turn the key in the ignition. As he did so, he spotted something sitting on the dash.

It was the business card the fake doctor had given him. For the first time, Jim took a really good look at it. “Blair Sandburg, Department of Anthropology at Rainier University,” he read aloud.

The pseudo-McCoy’s voice echoed in his head. _He’s the only one who can truly help you._ There’d been sincerity in the man’s voice, and earnestness in his eyes. But the man had also lied about being Dr. McCoy. Could anything he said be believed? Or was he running some elaborate scam?

_He did know about my “touchy-feely” issue, though. I’m positive that I didn’t tell anybody about my sense of touch being more sensitive, let alone anyone who would’ve been in a position to note it in my chart. So how did he know?_

He wished now he hadn’t jumped all over the guy about it. He’d gotten so angry at the thought that the man was asking about his sex life that he’d missed the important part of the entire exchange: the man seemed to know something about his condition. Even more importantly, the man claimed to know someone who could help him.

“But an anthropologist?” Jim asked, skeptical. “How in the hell can an anthropologist help me when the doctors can’t?”

He didn’t know, but he was beginning to think he needed to hunt down this Blair Sandburg and ask him. Maybe he was being a sucker, maybe he was acting like every other person on the planet who’d ever purchased snake oil in the desperate search for a cure, but the longer he stared at the business card, the more he felt that looking up Sandburg was the right thing to do. No, not just the _right_ thing to do, but the _only_ thing to do.

_It’s either that or watch myself slowly go insane._

Put that way, the choice was easy. Jim started the jeep and pulled out of the hospital parking lot, headed for Rainier University.

* * *

He began to doubt the wisdom of that choice once he got to the university and began wandering around the campus, looking for Hargrove Hall.

_I can’t believe I’m actually doing this. I can’t believe I’m listening to that whacked-out fake doctor and seeking out an anthropologist for help. An_ anthropologist _, for God’s sake! What the hell is an anthropologist going to be able to do for me?_

He couldn’t seem to stop asking himself that question, but yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was doing the right thing. He needed to meet this Blair Sandburg and hear what the man had to say. If it turned out that Sandburg and the “doctor” were running some sort of scam, well, then he’d know. He could cross Sandburg off the list and go from there. He’d be back to square one.

Jim finally found Hargrove Hall. Now he just needed to find Sandburg’s office.

It didn’t take as long as he’d thought it would. Indeed, if he’d realized it when he entered the building, all he needed to do was follow the music.

Jim stood outside of Sandburg’s door, staring at it, wondering if he wanted to go in after all. He hadn’t even laid eyes on Sandburg yet, but already his opinion of him was low. The anthropologist had what sounded like a tape consisting of nothing but jungle drums cranked up so loud the entire building had to have been able to hear it. Worse, Sandburg didn’t even have a proper office. The door actually claimed the room was “Artifact Storage, Room 3.” Taped below it was a handwritten sign with “Blair Sandburg” written on it in black magic marker.

_I’ve come this far_ , he reasoned. _I might as well get this over with._ Sighing inwardly, Jim braced himself and opened the door.

Seated at the desk was a man. His face was turned away from the door, but Jim saw right away the torn blue jeans, multicolored vest, and long, curly brown hair spilling down around the shoulders. The man was jamming to the beat of the drums, unaware that he had company.

With a sinking heart, the detective got Sandburg’s attention. The man turned, and Jim got his first good look at Blair Sandburg, B.A., M.A.

_You have_ got _to be KIDDING me!_

It was the fake Dr. McCoy from the hospital.

_This guy is Blair Sandburg? What game is he playing?_

Jim knew he should leave right now. He should leave before Sandburg started talking. The longer he stayed, the more likely it was that he would fall for whatever scam Sandburg was running.

After all, he’d already allowed himself to be hooked. He’d already taken the first step down the path to becoming a scam victim. And even though he knew how to detect a scam, he could feel the allure of the bait being dangled before him. Knowledge about his condition. Hope that something could be done. That there was a cure that would make him go back to normal.

But he couldn’t quite make himself turn to go. That need to stay, to hear what Sandburg had to say, was still with him. Maybe that was part of what it felt like to fall victim to a scam, but for some reason, he didn’t think so.

So he stood there and let Sandburg ramble on about his music as the detective took stock of his surroundings. Sandburg’s office might be small, but he definitely knew how to get the most out of the space. Every spare inch of wall, shelf, and floor was crammed full of artifacts, tribal masks, dream catchers, posters, books, papers, and so on. It looked like a cluttered mess to Jim, but he knew some people would call it an organized state of chaos.

He tuned back in to hear Sandburg going on about how Jim’s father probably used to yell at him to turn down the Rolling Stones. Jim thought this would be a good time to get a word in, and seized the opportunity to get Sandburg to turn the music off. He promptly obliged, and Jim inwardly breathed a sigh of relief at the lack of noise.

Before Sandburg could start rambling on about some other weird topic, Jim decided to come right out with it. “Why are you in my face?”

“Oh, hey, look, I’m really sorry about all that Shakespeare stuff at the hospital. But I just had to find some way to get you into my area here to talk.”

_Yep, sounds like the beginning of a scam. You’ve hooked the fish, now start the sell. But I’m here, so let’s get this over with._ “So talk.”

Sandburg didn’t seem taken aback at Jim’s less-than-inviting manner. Instead, he asked Jim to take a seat, then realized his spare chair already had books and papers in it. Looking for somewhere else to put them, he finally gave up and let them fall onto the ground next to the chair. Jim sat in the now-empty chair and turned an intimidating stare on Sandburg, the one he normally reserved for recalcitrant suspects.

Sandburg opened his mouth and started babbling again, this time about how he’d been “tutoring” some nurse. Having absolutely no interest in Sandburg’s sex life, Jim waited to see if he’d ever get to the point.

Sandburg seemed to realize pretty quickly that he’d better move on from the nurse if he wanted to keep Jim there. He went on about how the nurse faxed over Jim’s chart the moment she saw it, making Jim think there was one nurse that should lose her job. Excitedly, Sandburg concluded, “When I read that thing, man, it was like – BANG! Holy Grail time!”

Jim was rapidly starting to lose patience with Sandburg’s rambling, convoluted way of talking. He was this close to walking out the door. _If he’s a scam artist_ , Jim found himself thinking, _he’s not as good as I thought he was, since he’s taking forever to get to the point._ Figuring he’d give Sandburg one more chance to state his case, he let his impatience show as he said, “You’re losing me, Chief.”

If Sandburg was nothing else, he was quick on the uptake. He started over. “Okay, um…my name is Blair Sandburg. And I’m working on my doctorate in anthropology, and you just may be the living embodiment of my field of study.” Jim looked away, not sure what to make of this. It sure wasn’t what he was expecting to hear.

Sandburg continued. “If I’m correct, Detective Ellison, you’re a behavioral throwback to a pre-civilized breed of man.”

_What the…?_ Jim slowly turned his head back to look at Sandburg, pinning him with his icy gaze. “Are you out of your mind?” he asked Sandburg quietly. Standing up, disbelieving, anger permeating his voice, he demanded, “You dragged me all the way over here to tell me I’m some sort of caveman?”

Sandburg, apparently sensing danger, tried to backpedal. “Well, maybe I was a little out of line with that caveman remark, but I mean…”

He got no further. Jim grabbed the anthropologist by his collar and shoved him up against the wall, furious. Sandburg cringed, fear and uncertainty blazing out of his wide blue eyes. His hands tried to push Jim away, but it was a futile effort, and he quickly gave up.

Jim was almost completely consumed by rage. He’d suspected that maybe Sandburg was running some sort of scam, but this… this was even worse. He’d come to Sandburg’s office with the slightest hope that he could tell Jim what was wrong with his senses. Instead, he discovered that Sandburg was only interested in Jim because he believed him to be some sort of modern-day caveman.

_If one more person talks about wanting to run tests on me, or study me, or acts like I’m some sort of escaped circus freak, I swear to God, I will hit someone._

Instead, he turned his most intimidating stare upon the anthropologist and softly seethed, “Listen, you neo-hippie witch doctor punk, I could slap you right now with larceny and false impersonation, and you are heading real quick into harassing a police officer, and what’s more, your behavior is giving me probable cause to shake this place down from top to bottom for narcotics.” Running out of potential things to charge the grad student with, the detective continued to glare at Sandburg, face so close to his that their noses were almost touching.

To Jim’s surprise, Sandburg did not cry or try to proclaim his innocence. Even the fear faded as the grad student got over his shock at being slammed into a wall. “Hey, Joe Friday, relax, okay?” Sandburg began, feeling his way. Then, more forcefully and confidently, looking Jim right in the eyes without a hint of fear, he said the words guaranteed to cut right through Jim’s anger. “Look, you mess with me, man, and you are never gonna figure out what’s up with you.”

Jim’s jaw dropped open. The fear, completely forgotten about in his burst of anger, returned in full force. He stared at Sandburg for a moment, unable to hide his fear from the man, then released him and walked away, trying to get himself back under control.

_Brilliant, Ellison_ , he berated himself. _You come here because you think this man might be your only hope, then you almost beat him into a pulp because he says something you don’t like._

Maybe Sandburg was full of shit, and maybe he was only interested in Jim because he thought the detective would make an excellent research subject, but that didn’t change the truth: He’d come here for help. And Sandburg was right about one thing. If he pissed Sandburg off, or stormed out without hearing what he had to say, Jim would never know if the anthropologist could’ve actually helped him.

Calmer, ready to listen, he turned back to Sandburg, who sounded like he was resuming a lecture. “Now I know about your time spent in Peru, and it has _got_ to be connected to what is happening to you now.”

Jim blinked in surprise, shocked. _What? Peru? What in the hell does Peru have to do with anything?_

Ignoring Jim’s look, Sandburg turned to walk over to his desk and grab a book, talking the entire time. “Now, let me just show you something here. This is a monograph by Sir Richard Burton, the explorer, not the actor. It’s over a hundred years old.”

He opened the book to a pre-marked page and handed it to Jim. The detective looked down to see a black-and-white photo of a man that looked similar to the men he’d seen in the native villages down in Peru, wearing nothing but a loincloth and a necklace, and carrying a handful of spears. Confused, he continued to listen to Sandburg, wondering what this picture had to do with anything.

“Anyway, the idea goes something like this – in all tribal cultures, every village had what Burton named a Sentinel. Now this was someone who patrolled the border.”

“You mean a scout.”

“No, no, no, more like a watchman. You see, this Sentinel would watch for approaching enemies, changes in the weather, movement of game. Tribe survival depended on it.”

Jim nodded, thinking he understood the concept, and guessing that the man in the book was one of these Sentinels. He still didn’t get what this picture, and the whole Sentinel idea, had to do with him. He asked Sandburg as much.

As he asked the question, though, it dawned on him that this was really why he was here. This was why he’d felt compelled to stay, even when every rational thought told him he should get out while he still could. He was here to learn about these Sentinels. Somehow, these ancient watchmen were bound up with what was happening to him now.

Or, at least, that’s what Sandburg seemed to believe.

_Either this will make sense when I hear the entire explanation, or I’m back to wondering if I’m going crazy._

Swallowing hard, he waited to hear what Sandburg had to say, knowing his life, his sanity, was in the other man’s hands.

“A Sentinel is chosen because of a genetic advantage. A sensory awareness that can be developed beyond normal humans. Now, these senses are honed by solitary time spent in the wild.”

_So_ that’s _how he thinks my time in Peru is connected to what’s happening to me now. But I haven’t been to Peru in over five years, and I haven’t had a problem in all this time._

He jerked his mind back to Sandburg’s lecture in time to hear him going on about people with hyperactive senses. “…there are certain manifestations today of maybe one or two hyperactive senses, like taste and smell, people who work for coffee and perfume companies. Oh, and in Vietnam, the Army long-range recon units that had to-”

“-change their diet to fish and rice because a Cong scout could smell a Westerner by his waste,” finished Jim, remembering what a guy who’d been a member of one of those long-range units had told him once.

Jim felt more and more reassured by the minute. Everything Sandburg had to say made sense. He definitely seemed to have a sensory awareness that was at least different from other people’s. Sandburg’s linking of his hyperactive senses with people in the real world made him feel for the first time that maybe he wasn’t going crazy, that he wasn’t some kind of weird freak that needed to be locked away and studied.

“Right, right, exactly,” Sandburg agreed, eagerly going on with his explanation. “I’ve got hundreds and hundreds of documented cases over here,” he gestured to a shelf full of folders and binders, “of one or two hyperactive senses, but not one single subject with all five.”

The more Sandburg talked, the more reassured and comforted Jim felt. He wasn’t alone. This wasn’t abnormal. What was going on with him had been documented in history. There were people just like him that held down jobs, even joined the military. The idea of a Sentinel using his abilities to protect his tribe appealed to him. Isn’t that more or less what he did every day anyway as a police detective?

Then the rest of what Sandburg said got through. He knew of people with one or two hyperactive senses, but he’d never come across anyone with all five senses. The only place he’d ever heard of a person like that was in some old book written by some long-dead explorer.

Sandburg finished up with, “You could be the real thing.” He looked at Jim expectantly, barely restrained excitement radiating from him in an almost palpable wave.

Jim took a moment to work through everything he’d just heard. _I could be the real thing? What is he saying, that all of these other people just have some hyperactive senses, but because all five of mine seem to be that way, I may be one of these Sentinels? And it’s all because I was alone in the jungle for a time in Peru?_

Forgotten memories of his time in Peru began to resurface and flash through his mind. Things like hurriedly climbing a tree because he’d heard what sounded like a large, ferocious animal heading his way, then being surprised when it took the animal a few minutes instead of a few seconds to make it to him. Seeing a group of men at the helicopter crash site and being able to zoom in on an arm to detect an Army Ranger patch. Hearing a flock of startled birds take off, then noticing everyone else around him become aware of them thirty seconds later.

He shook his head slightly and pushed the memories away, but he couldn’t push away the idea that maybe Sandburg was on to something. Maybe this really did have to do with his time in Peru, and he was right about the whole Sentinel thing. He had to know for sure, but damn it, he really didn’t want to think about Peru!

Sandburg was clearly waiting for a response to his declaration that Jim might be the real thing. Feeling himself tense up, Jim stammered hesitantly, “The truth is, I…I don’t remember much of anything about the jungle.”

He found that he was rubbing his hands together and grinding his teeth. Why did he feel like he was about to be disciplined by the teacher in front of the whole class for some shameful deed? He wasn’t lying, after all. He really _didn’t_ remember much about his time in Peru.

Disciplining Jim seemed to be the last thing on Sandburg’s mind, though, and if he thought Jim was lying, he didn’t let on. Instead, he merely responded in a nonjudgmental tone of voice that sounded like he thought what Jim said was completely logical. “A year and a half spent in the bush? The sole survivor of your unit? I mean, I’m no psychiatrist, but that sounds pretty damn traumatic to me. And trauma tends to get repressed.”

Once again, what Sandburg said made sense to Jim. _Okay, so let’s say he’s right. I’m one of these Sentinels, and my hyperactive senses were triggered by being alone in the jungles of Peru. What little I’m starting to remember of that time seems to support his theory. After I was rescued, I repressed the entire experience, and in the process, somehow managed to get my senses back to normal._

Yes, it all made sense. At least, it did much to explain his time in Peru. It also explained how he’d managed to develop hyperactive senses in the first place. But one thing still didn’t add up.

“Let’s say I-I buy this. Why is this… coming back now?”

“I don’t know,” Sandburg admitted. Jim found himself disappointed at this. Up to now, Sandburg seemed to have all the answers. “But you need someone who understands your condition.”

A thin sliver of hope blossomed at those words. Isn’t this what he’d been wanting all along? To find someone who would be able to look at him, figure out what was wrong with him, and be willing to work with him to determine what could be done to help him?

When he’d first met Sandburg back at the hospital, he’d said of himself that he was the only one who could truly help Jim. He claimed that Jim needed information, not medicine. All the information he’d received in Sandburg’s office seemed to fit. It turned what had felt like an overwhelming experience that threatened to ruin his life into something that was manageable and could even potentially be incorporated into his everyday life if he chose to.

Sandburg might be young, he might look like a modern-day version of a flower child, but he was smart, knowledgeable, and apparently more than eager to get to work helping him right away. Jim was extremely tempted to accept what Sandburg seemed to be offering him.

But if there’s one thing Jim Ellison had learned in his life, it’s that no one could ever be completely trusted. No one was willing to do anything for you out of the goodness of their heart. Everybody wanted something from you. At least when he’d gone to the doctor, he’d known going in what the price would be for the man’s help. What was Sandburg expecting to get in return for helping Jim?

Bracing himself, Jim asked, “And what’s the payoff?”

Sandburg launched himself at Jim, grabbing his upper arms, a smile lighting up his face. Almost literally bouncing in place, Sandburg gushed, “My doctorate. I want to write about you. You’re my thesis.”

_I should have known! He wants to study me so he can write some damn paper. No way am I going to be his fucking lab rat!_

Angrily shaking off Sandburg’s grip, he growled, “I’ve had enough.” With that, he stormed out of Sandburg’s office and down the hall.

He could hear Sandburg yelling after him, “Well, just think about it, okay?” After a pause, Sandburg started yelling something else, but Jim tuned him out, not wanting to hear another word.

* * *

By the time he got to the building’s exit, though, he’d calmed down somewhat. The anger he’d felt in Sandburg’s office was fading, but unfortunately, despair was quickly trying to take its place. 

All this time spent running around, and he was no closer to a solution. He still had a choice to make.

He could go back to McCoy and allow him to run his tests, but Jim already knew that’d be a waste of time.

He could try to find a way to deal with his senses on his own. After all, he’d somehow found a way to turn the hyperactivity off when he got back from Peru. If he’d done it once, he should be able to do it again.

But at what cost?

More memories came back. The way the leader of the rescue team had looked at him when he’d heard the frightened flock of birds taking off before anyone else did. His inability to block out the painful sound and overpowering smells of the chopper as they flew him back to base. The sharp prick of the needle as they were forced to sedate him. His stay in the infirmary as he tried to explain to the doctors what was going on, and their looks of pity and judgment as they made notes on their clipboards. His pain at realizing that the army shrink didn’t believe him the one time he’d actually tried to talk about his time in Peru, seeing the man make notations about Jim’s “delusions” and “hallucinations.” Being afraid that he would be discharged from the Army as a Section 8. All this flashed through his mind as he opened the door and stepped outside.

If he tried to deal with it on his own this time, he feared what the outcome would be. He might manage to turn his senses off, but what would be left of his life by the time he did?

He could go see a shrink after all, but the thought was no more appealing to him now than it had been earlier. He’d rather have a root canal than go that route.

Working with Sandburg might be the only option left open to him. The anthropologist _did_ understand his condition, after all, and he was more than willing to try to help him. But was he willing to become Sandburg’s pet lab rat in exchange?

The thought depressed him. _Are there really no other alternatives? Am I reduced to this? Allowing some overgrown kid to study me in the hopes that he might be able to figure out some way to help me?_

As he began walking down the steps, Jim saw a group of college kids across the street playing Frisbee. He watched as one of the kids threw the disc, sending it flying high into the air. _Wish I could toss my problems away as easily as that kid just tossed his Frisbee_ , Jim thought ruefully.

He found himself tracking the Frisbee, noticing more and more about it as he did so. Every groove and knick on its surface, how the light interacted with the disc’s color, its rotation as it spun and soared in the air… The disc’s flight seemed to slow down as he watched, giving him all the time in the world to observe it, every last spin, every last wobble, every varying shade of red the light was able to bring out of it…

Time became meaningless. The world around him became meaningless. His entire world became that soaring Frisbee. And then even that image left his mind as he became completely oblivious to everything.

* * *

PAIN!

That was what brought him back out of that nothing-place. The sensation of the entire front of his body slamming into an unyielding surface, jarring every bone and knocking the breath out of his body.

As awareness returned, he realized he was lying face down on a hard, rough surface. An ungodly roaring sound was whooshing by right over top of him, accompanied by an almost overwhelming scent of diesel fumes and garbage. He tried to move, but realized that over half of his body was being pushed down by a heavy weight.

In an instant, the roar had moved away, the scent of the fumes had lessened, and the scene around him brightened as the daylight was no longer blocked. He heard brakes squealing at the same time the weight that had been bearing him down lessened, then disappeared altogether.

Slowly standing up, his entire body sore, he looked around him, trying to figure out what was going on. In front of him on the street was a garbage truck, which had stopped about four inches away from his head. Behind him he heard a voice he thought sounded familiar screech, “Wow! Oh, that really sucked, man!”

Turning, he saw Sandburg standing next to him, looking freaked out. Still somewhat dazed, but beginning to become alarmed, Jim asked, “What happened?”

“It was that thing I was trying to warn you about – the zone-out factor.”

The words made no sense to Jim. All he knew was that one minute he was watching some kids play Frisbee, and the next minute he was lying face down on the street, Sandburg on top of him, with a garbage truck barreling over inches above his head.

As he realized what had happened, Jim’s fear returned in full force. It had happened again. He’d suffered a blackout because his senses had acted up again, and this time he’d almost gotten run over by a garbage truck. If Sandburg hadn’t come chasing after him and saved his life…

The garbage truck driver got out of the cab, clearly shaken. “God Almighty, you all right? You just stepped right out in front of me!”

Sandburg answered for the both of them. “We’re okay, man, we’re all right.” He sounded almost as freaked as Jim felt.

More and more people were starting to gather around, wanting to know what had happened. Jim started to feel penned in, almost claustrophobic. He was afraid that if he stayed there much longer, he would lose it. The need to flee the scene intensified with every second. The only thing helping him keep any semblance of control was the feel of Sandburg’s hand on his shoulder.

“Let’s get out of here before I gotta answer a lot of questions.” Jim didn’t even realize he’d said that out loud until the younger man began to guide him away from the scene, talking the whole time. Jim let the man’s words wash over him, not listening, but using the sound of his voice and the touch of his hands as an anchor to help him get hold of himself. The panicky feeling slowly began to lessen.

A few minutes later, Jim had settled down enough to start taking notice of what was going on. They had left campus. The smell of the ocean air told Jim that they were heading towards the waterfront, most likely toward the outdoor marketplace down by the pier. The market was popular with college students, as it was within walking distance of campus.

Sandburg was still talking. “So, the more tests we run, the more we’ll learn about your senses. That’ll make you better able to understand and use them.”

Jim felt himself begin to tense up again at the word “tests.” _Not this again._ Jim stopped and grabbed Sandburg by the arm. “Tests? Look, Chief, I came to you on the off chance that you could help me, not because I wanted to be your lab rat.”

Sandburg looked confused and hurt. “Lab rat? Is that what you think? That all I wanna do is run tests on you?”

“What am I supposed to think?” Jim exclaimed, exasperated. “Practically the first thing you said to me when I walked into your office was that I was some sort of modern-day caveman. You go on about wanting to study me and run tests on me so you can write some paper. You call me your Holy Grail. How does that not make me your lab rat?”

“Look, man, I’m sorry if my behavior gave you that impression, but that’s not how I think of you.” The confusion was gone from Sandburg’s face, but the hurt still lingered in his eyes. “I admit, I probably was a bit much for you, but I couldn’t help it. When I realized I just might have finally found a real Sentinel after years of searching, I lost it. I mean, I was just about ready to give up looking, and then, there you were! You can’t believe how excited and nervous I was.”

Jim could believe that the grad student had been excited. He was getting that way right now just talking about it. But the detective found his irritation lessening at Sandburg’s admission of nerves.

“Nervous?” he questioned, almost afraid to ask, but intrigued enough that he had to know. “What were you nervous about?”

Surprise flashed across Sandburg’s face. “Nervous about meeting you, being in the same room as you. Think about it. I’ve been reading about Sentinels for years, about their abilities, their importance to their tribe, and so on, that the figure had taken on an almost legendary quality to me. I didn’t know what you would be like. All the way to the hospital, I had to keep reminding myself that if you really were a Sentinel, you weren’t going to be Superman, but a human being with an extraordinary gift. Then I finally met you, and it was all I could do to hold it together long enough to try to get you to come to my office so I could really talk to you.”

A look of wonderment appeared on Sandburg’s face as he said, “And then, you came. You were there. You were really there, in my office. And as I talked to you, I realized that my dreams had come true. You were an honest-to-God Sentinel.”

The irritation began to come back as Sandburg once again began to talk about him like an object. Some of that irritation must have crept into his expression, because Sandburg became serious as he continued. “I realized something else when you were in my office. You might be a real Sentinel, you might be exactly what I’ve been searching for for all these years, but you were also a man who was afraid and really needed help. Unfortunately, my excitement got the better of me, and I ended up driving you away before I could tell you everything you needed to know.”

Jim couldn’t suppress a shudder as he remembered coming to in the middle of the road, the garbage truck rushing over him, and having no memory of how he’d come to be there. Sandburg was also clearly thinking about the same thing as he said, “Let me tell you, Detective Ellison, that when I came out of my building and saw you standing frozen and unaware in the middle of the road, the last thing I was thinking about was of how my lab rat was about to become street pizza. All I could think was that if you died, it would be all my fault.”

Jim’s mouth fell open, stunned. _He thinks what happened to me was_ his _fault?_ “Sandburg, what happened to me is not your fault. I’m the one who can’t control my senses,” he said bitterly. “If it weren’t for you, I’d be dead now.” Quietly, he rasped, “Thanks.”

Sandburg brushed off the gratitude. “Detective, it _is_ my fault. Like I said, my excitement got the better of me, and I lost sight of what was truly important: you came to me for help, and I may be one of the only people in the world who can give it to you.” He looked intently at Jim. “I still want to help you, if you’ll let me.” He paused a moment, then, quietly and earnestly, he implored, “Please. Let me help you.”

Those words, coupled with the depth of honesty and sincerity he saw in the younger man’s gaze, broke through the last of Jim’s resistance. He finally allowed himself to believe that Sandburg was for real. He’d finally found the person he’d been looking for, the one who understood what was happening to him, who didn’t think he was crazy, and had a shot at actually being able to do something for him.

“Okay,” he whispered, feeling all the tension flow out of his body as he did so, to be replaced by an immense feeling of relief. His search was over. Now the work on curing him could begin.

Feeling hopeful for the first time since his senses had begun raging out of control, Jim Ellison resumed walking, Blair Sandburg at his side, feeling the world opening up before him once again.

## 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> **Acknowledgements/Disclaimers:**
> 
> _The Sentinel_ and all its characters do not belong to me, but to Pet Fly Productions and to Paramount.
> 
> There are parts in my story where the dialogue was lifted directly from “The Switchman.” Those bits of dialogue were originally written by the scriptwriters of the episode, Paul DeMeo and Danny Bilson. I am happy to give them credit, as without those two, not only would we not have had this episode, but we would not have had a series.
> 
> I’d also like to give a shout-out to Becky’s Sentinel Episode Transcripts Page at http://www.kelesa.net/transcripts/index.htm. I relied heavily on her transcript of this episode not only so I could make sure I got the borrowed dialogue correct, but to remind myself of other events that took place in the episode. I rewatched the episode quite a few times while writing this, but without this transcript, I don’t think this story would ever have been written.
> 
> Everything else in the story belongs to me.
> 
> **Spoken dialogue borrowed from the episode:**
> 
> In the scene in the MRI room, everything from the moment Blair walks into the room through the real McCoy saying he is Dr. McCoy.
> 
> Everything from the moment Jim enters Blair’s office at Rainier and asks him, “Why are you in my face?” through the end of the garbage truck zone-out scene (“Let’s get out of here before I gotta answer a lot of questions.”).


End file.
